Her Very Private Spy
by r4ven3
Summary: Set 2 years after Ruth has left London, she is living in a small town in Germany, and she receives an encrypted note. I am telling this story in longer chapters, and so it should be wrapped up in 5 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

A small town in Germany - Tuesday:

She walks around her flat once more, from room to room, her eyes darting nervously over the furniture which had served forty years of tenants before her. At one end of the sofa a pale blue scarf pokes out from beneath a cushion. She rushes over to retrieve it, stuffing it into one of the deep pockets of her cardigan.

In the bathroom she catches a glimpse of her reflected image in the mirror above the basin, and stops to stare. Her eyes are wide, fearful, hopeful, more grey than blue, and her hair sits on her shoulders, unruly from her earlier jaunt outside. She is no longer a mid-thirties woman embarking on an adventure partly of her own will and design. Over two years have passed, and her time in exile weighs heavily upon her. The price she has paid has been too high. The lines around her eyes and mouth speak of disappointment – lonely days and nights during which she has doubted herself and her decision to leave.

She'd visited her neighbours – Marie and Jacques, Martha, Greta, and of course, Jerome – and then she'd popped into the bakery one last time to purchase a freshly baked bread roll. She is all hugged out, feeling ungrateful for wanting to leave this place where people have so freely opened their arms and their lives to her. While she looks forward to leaving, her heart is heavy with the knowledge that it is unlikely their paths will cross again.

Then there's her rescuer - her spy, her very private spy. How will she react to him when she sees him? At least he is alive. She sees this as a lone positive to emerge from her sacrifice. His message, encrypted for the sake of safety, was brief and to the point.

 _I'll pick you up from your flat at 2 pm on Tuesday 15th. I look forward to seeing you again. We have much to talk about._

 _Harry._

`We have much to talk about.' She has pondered his message in an attempt to squeeze some deeper meaning from those six words. All she has to talk about is two years of running and struggling and hiding away and looking behind her, always looking behind her. Why would he want to hear about that? Well, why not? She'd endured long nights when she couldn't sleep, days when she could do little more than cry, and other days when she'd stared through a window, watching the world turn around her while she sat inside her protective cocoon, the shell she'd woven around herself to keep those who would hurt her or Harry at bay.

On this day, the day Harry is to arrive to take her home, she can no longer hold on to the belief that she sacrificed herself for the greater good; it is the kind of reasoning one uses when no good reason exists. She hopes Harry's life has been enriched during her time in exile, but not _too_ enriched. She knows nothing of Harry's life now, but she hopes he is happy, and that his job with Mi5 is intact. After all is said and done, isn't that the reason she'd left?

So she sits across from her front door, her hold-all at her feet, while she waits.

2 pm passes, but she is not worried. She expects that he'll be late. She sits on the hard wooden chair, feet together, her hands folded on her lap. She doesn't look at the door in case her focused attention serves to keep him away.

3 pm comes and goes, and then 4, followed by 5. Then sadness, her constant companion, creeps in to push away the hope, the hope she has barely dared entertain.

By 6 o'clock her hope has all but drained away, and so she eats the roll she'd bought earlier, along with two slices of fresh ham, accompanied by a mug of sweet tea. Disappointment is now her companion. She considers unpacking her hold-all, but one last rebellious flicker of hope says, `maybe not yet'.

It is after 6.30, while she is in the bathroom washing her hands after having used the toilet, that she hears a sharp rapping on her front door. She hurries to the door, placing both palms against the wood while she peers through the spy hole. What she sees has her heart rate racing, and her face flushing. She quickly opens the door, and just as quickly he steps inside her flat, closing the door behind him, and then leaning his back against it, his eyes closed. For a moment she is a voyeur, watching this man unseen as she has done so many times in their shared past.

He appears older, and strangely, far more attractive than the sad and defeated man who had fareweled her two years earlier. There are lines at the corners of his eyes, and his jaw is set, as if he rarely smiles. He wears black jeans, a grey open-necked shirt, and a hooded jacket lined with lambswool. He breathes heavily, his chest heaving as though he's been running. She already knows about the black Saab parked diagonally across the street, its two occupants curved languidly in their seats, apparently disinterested in their surroundings while barely bothering to hide their presence.

"Harry? Are you all right?" she says after minutes have passed and he has not moved from the door.

She waits as he brings his breathing under control, and then opens his eyes, seeing them soften as he gazes at her, drinking her in. It is only then that he nods. Her need to hear his voice, his deep, mellow, soothing voice becomes critical. "Please say something," she says.

He pushes himself away from the door, and stands watching her closely. Then he takes a step closer, and then another, until she can smell the unique scent of him, and feel his warm breath on her forehead. "I've waited over two years for this," he says huskily, and then slowly he lifts his hands from his sides to grasp her shoulders. He draws her against him, slowly so as to not frighten her, all the while watching her. He wraps his arms around her and gathers her against him. Ruth does not hesitate. She winds her arms around his waist, and rests her cheek against his shoulder, allowing herself to breathe out her fear and disappointment in a heavy sigh.

It is only then that Ruth feels free to allow the tears to fall, but this time they are tears of relief and joy.

* * *

Harry allows her to cry. He says nothing, only once she is again calm, he pulls away from her and with the pads of his thumbs he wipes under her eyes while closely scrutinising her, his eyes roaming over her face, his lips turned up in a half smile. "It's so good to see you," he murmurs. "I'd convinced myself you wouldn't want to see me."

Ruth shakes her head. "You'd best come in," she says, avoiding his eyes. "Do you need something to eat? I only have cans of soup."

"Soup would be good," he says, his eyes tired.

She has led him into the tiny kitchen alcove, barely big enough to accommodate two bodies. "I can't offer you bread. This morning I bought a fresh bread roll, but just before you arrived I ate it." Her eyes flick up to meet his. She is embarrassed by her absence of pre-planning.

"Just soup will do," he says, his voice deep and quiet, its rumbling reaching right inside her to reverberate against her bones, "and I could do with a cuppa."

Ruth turns and smiles. "It's been a while since anyone has asked me for one of those," she says, her eyes lifting to his. She reads something in his own eyes – weariness, exhaustion certainly, but there is some other quality, something familiar there also. Then she remembers. What she sees is longing – longing for her. She has missed him; she has missed this, this .. undefined, unspoken vibe between them.

Ruth turns away from him and back to the bench, where she fills a kettle and gently places it on a burner on the stove. While she is searching for the tea bags, she feels him moving closer to her. Despite how cold it is outside, his body radiates heat. "Can I do anything to help?" he asks.

Ruth opens a cupboard above her head and takes a can of soup from the shelf. "It's beef hotpot or beef hotpot," she says, not looking at him. She has her own longing. She longs to lean against him, to sink against his solid body, allowing him to support her weight for a while. She allows herself to fold into a deep part of herself, a part which knows how much she has missed having someone to share her burdens, someone to lift her spirits when she doubts herself, someone to watch, someone reliable and decent and honourable, someone like him. She opens the drawer beside the sink. "There's a can opener in there somewhere," she says, unable to look at him in case he can still read her thoughts.

She makes their cups of tea, while he heats the soup in a saucepan on the stove top. They sit at the ridiculously tiny table just outside the kitchen alcove. It is only when he is wolfing down the soup that Ruth watches him closely. His hair is a little longer than it had been when she'd left, so that the ends curl, and she is sure she can detect greying hair at his temples. He is not the same man she had left behind. He is quiet. There is a dangerous quality to him, but perhaps there always had been, and she'd chosen to ignore it. The man in black jeans and lambswool-lined jacket is a far cry from the smart section head who'd dressed in a suit.

When he has finished the soup, and has rinsed his plate and spoon and upended them on the dish drainer, he sits once more across from Ruth, and sips his tea. Then he outlines the plans he has for that evening, for when he plucks her from beneath the noses of the men in the black Saab. "Do you know who they are?" he asks, when she mentions the black car across the street.

"Not personally, no. I've been told they're Russian."

"Who told you that?"

"Jerome. My neighbour at number 8." He smiles then, the first smile she's seen since he arrived. "What?" she asks.

"Do you know everyone in this building?"

"Not everyone, no. There's a woman on the third floor who shouts if anyone plays music. I can't say that I know her, and she speaks to no-one .. other than when she shouts."

Harry nods, a slight smile turning his lips. She watches his lips – another thing she's missed, and forgotten how much.

"The car will be in the lane at 10.50 this evening. Theodore can only wait for ten minutes. If you're not there by 11, he will leave without you."

"I'll be there. How will I know which car?"

"I'll take you there."

"But -"

"I can't go with you, Ruth. Together we'd stand out, but I'll meet you later. Don't worry about me. I'll find you."

"Sure?"

"I wouldn't be doing this otherwise."

For several minutes neither speaks. Harry appears preoccupied, and Ruth, as always, is sensitive to his mood. She knows her extraction will be dangerous. Timing will be everything. Harry is clearly worried, and if she knows him like she used to know him, he'll be going over and over in his mind the steps he has to take later that evening. He'll be previewing her extraction in every detail, like a golfer previews each stroke of the ball before he lines up to strike it.

"We have three hours until we need to be ready to leave," Harry says at last, his eyes on his empty tea cup. "I could do with a .." Ruth's thoughts wander into personal territory. Is he asking her for sex? Harry had never before asked her for sex .. at least, not with words. "Do you have a spare bed?" he asks, and she sits up straight.

"A bed? Why?"

"I need to sleep. I'll set my alarm for 10.30. Can I perhaps use your bed, Ruth?"

She nods and slowly rises from her chair. "My bedroom's through here."

Harry follows, barely registering the pictures on the walls, or the dark, old-fashioned décor, along with the dank smell of an old flat in a very old building. It has been hours since he has had a decent sleep, and he is out on his feet. Ruth shows him the bathroom, toilet and her bedroom, neither of which occupy much floor space. "I'll turn back the bed for you," she says, and vanishes through the door to her bedroom, where, only hours earlier she had stripped the bed and re-made it, just in case Harry hadn't turned up for her.

She has only just plumped the pillows and turned back the duvet when Harry enters the room. She steps away from the bed, a little embarrassed to be discovered fussing over the bed in which he will be spending a brief few hours. He takes his phone from his pocket and sets the alarm, placing it on the low cupboard beside the bed. Ruth turns to leave the room, and he reaches out and grasps her hand. She turns to watch his hand holding hers. How could she have forgotten his hands? Square and strong and clean, Harry's hand grasps hers – gently, but firmly. She lifts her eyes to his, and reflected in them she sees her own deeply buried pain – the pain of one loss too many. She watches and waits. "Stay with me until I fall asleep," he says, his voice so quiet she barely hears him.

Ruth nods, and points towards the bathroom. "I'll just go ..." she says. He drops her hand, freeing her to scuttle through to use the toilet and the bathroom. By the time she returns to her bedroom, Harry has removed his outer clothing, and is standing by her bed, wearing only trunks and a black t-shirt. She hovers in the doorway, not sure whether he is happy being seen in a state of undress.

Harry's smile is gentle, even amused, as he lifts the duvet in preparation for climbing under the covers. "You're welcome to join me," he says.

"I'll .." she says, taking a step towards the chair at the end of the bed, on which he has dropped his clothes. "I'll just put these here," she adds, grasping them between her hands and draping them over the foot of the bed. Harry's clothes are warm and they smell of him.

He is already under the duvet, and has it pulled up to his chin. He is watching her, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable. She wonders does he hope she'll crawl into bed with him. She'd like to, but she thinks it unwise. They have a stressful night ahead, and any personal feelings they still harbour for one another will have to wait. She is hopeful there will come a time when they are free to concentrate on themselves, without worrying that in an instant one of them may be taken. She curls up in the armchair, having removed the blanket from over the back of the chair, so that when she is settled and comfortable, she drapes it around her knees and over her lap.

Ruth turns her head so that she can watch him. His eyes are still open; he has watched every move she has made since she returned from the bathroom. "What is it?" she asks, embarrassed. She has never enjoyed being the centre of someone's attention, especially his.

"It's such a relief to see you again, Ruth. I'm afraid to close my eyes in case ..."

There it is again – the almost-finished sentence. She knows what he is trying to say. She nods and smiles. "I'm not going anywhere," she says quietly, "so sleep."

* * *

Ruth is jerked awake by the sharp sound of the alarm on Harry's phone, closely followed by his voice, barely awake. "Bloody hell," he says gruffly.

What follows is a flurry of activity by them both, as they prepare to leave, each visiting the bathroom one more time. Harry's visit to her flat has been brief, but she has lived there for fifteen months, and despite the strong friendships she has formed with a few of her neighbours, she is never returning. "I think I have everything," she says as she meets him by the front door.

"Did you mean to leave that light on?" he asks, nodding towards the kitchen alcove.

Ruth nods. "I need it to appear as if I'm still here."

Harry opens the front door, and they both slip silently into the corridor. "Is this the way to the back lane?" he asks, turning right.

"Follow me," Ruth replies. "I don't usually go this way, but if we want to get to the lane unseen ..."

They hurry down the narrow corridor to the side entrance, through the large garden at the back of the building, to the (normally unseen) gate behind the large maple tree, a tree which had provided Ruth with a shady spot under which to read during summer afternoons. Harry places a hand on her arm, stopping her from opening the gate. She looks up at him to see his dark eyes watching her closely. She lifts her eyebrows in a question.

"When we go through that gate, Ruth, I will be taking you to Theodore's car -"

"What kind of car is it?" She finds that she's whispering.

"It's a BMW, dark blue, late model. I've known Theodore for over 30 years, and I trust him. I would never leave you with him otherwise." He watches her for a moment while she takes that in. "I'll open the back door and see you and your luggage inside, and then I'll close the door and disappear. I have to move quickly .. just in case."

Harry lifts his left wrist and checks his watch. "10.50 on the dot," he says, and Ruth feels her heart beating at the back of her throat. "Time to go," he says, "but first .." He grasps her hand and turns her to face him. For a long moment he searches her eyes with his own. "It won't be long before we'll be seeing one another again." Then he reaches down and kisses her. Given the occasion, it is a surprisingly tender kiss.

"You'd better be there," she murmurs against his lips, although in that moment she has little idea when and where she will next see him, only that she will.

Harry turns from her and, carrying her bag, he pushes open the gate and steps onto the pavement. In the lane outside Ruth counts five parked cars. The one just in front of them is a white Volkswagon Golf. Harry is ahead of her; having turned right, he is walking purposefully towards the BMW only forty metres away. He reaches the back door, opens it, slings her bag inside, and then turns to grasp her hand. "Inside," is all he says, before she slips past him. The interior of the car is very warm, and smells like leather, with an overlay of masculine cologne and cigarette smoke. As Harry closes the door behind her, she looks to the interior rear view mirror to see the grey eyes of the driver. He nods to her before breaking eye contact and starting the motor.  
Remembering that Harry is on the street alone, she turns in her seat, but there is no sign of him. He has vanished, absorbed by the night. "He'll be fine," her driver says. "He's done this sort of thing many, many times. I'm Theodore," he says. His accent is clipped, but clearly not German. "I was born in Amsterdam," he says, smiling. "You're on the way to my home town."

Ruth sees the lines at the corner of his eyes as he smiles at her, before looking away to concentrate on turning a corner at speed. Ruth looks left and right, but there is still no sign of Harry. "Where is he?" Ruth asks, embarrassed by how needy she must sound.

This time Theodore doesn't take his eyes from the road, as he takes a winding, confusing route through the streets of the town. "He's safe, Ruth." He speeds through the streets, the engine purring quietly. She sits back, giving her life over to her driver. Harry trusts him, so she must also.

* * *

While Ruth is being spirited through the streets in a car driven by Theodore Jansen, Harry is negotiating a series of lanes on foot. He walks quickly, but without the appearance of hurrying. He reaches the club at 11.22 pm, two minutes late. He enters the club, wandering between the tables until he sees the empty table – #3 – close to the stage where an unenthusiastic stripper is down to just her g-string. Harry glances around, but other patrons seem to not notice him, nor is their attention on the stripper. He takes the seat closest to the stage, effectively turning his back to the floor show. He picks up the glass of whisky which has been left for him, savouring the warmth it brings as he gulps it down. He resists checking his watch. He can trust Wolf.

Sixteen minutes later Wolf Jaeger - tall, sturdy, head shaven - sits in the chair opposite. "There is a card game in the back room," he says in rapid German. "Would you like to join us?"

Harry nods, stands, and follows Wolf through the curtained doorway to the area behind the stage. They pass the room where a card game _is_ in progress, and eventually out into the cool night, where a grey Mercedes is parked.

"We'll never make it to Munich in time," Harry says, trying to hide his anxiety.

"I know," Wolf says, swapping to English the minute the car door is closed behind him, and then he starts the car. "The train is about to make an unscheduled stop at the next town."

"Unscheduled?" Harry turns to watch the face of his companion, but Wolf is concentrating on negotiating the narrow streets.

"You'll see." They are already on the road to the next town, just fifteen kilometres away. Wolf turns to grin at Harry, his perfect teeth gleaming white in the dark interior of the car.

* * *

Ruth is alert throughout the circuitous journey, and it is soon clear to her that they are headed for Ingolstadt. Once they reach the autobahn, Theodore relaxes and engages her in a sentimental discussion about the best cities in Europe. Ruth suggests Prague, while Theodore is torn between Paris and his home city of Amsterdam. "I haven't visited them all," Ruth says, "so I'm afraid I can't comment on say, Edinburgh, or Copenhagen."

"You've not been to Copenhagen? You must. It is .. unique .. like a beautiful woman."

Ruth cannot determine Theodore's age, but given the amount he has travelled, and the revolutions and coups he has witnessed, and those he's taken part in, he would have to be older than Harry, perhaps in his early sixties. He is still a handsome man, his jaw defined, his eyes all-seeing, and his steel-grey hair thick and wavy.

"Have you lived in Spain?" he says after a long silence. When Ruth nods, he smiles into the rear view mirror. "Spain is best experienced during times of chaos."

Theodore never qualifies his bold statement, because he turns off the autobahn, and heads towards the train station, weaving the car through the streets before he takes the most direct route, eventually parking the car in an underground car park.

"You're coming with me?" Ruth asks, as he takes her bag from her hand, and then a bag of his own from the boot of the car.

"Just to be on the safe side," he says, hurrying her towards the escalators. "The train is due in ten minutes."

It takes twelve minutes to reach the platform, Theodore having produced their tickets when required. By the time Ruth stands ready to board the train she is shaking with tension. She can't fault Theodore at all. He has been a pleasant and entertaining driver and companion.

"Will I see you again?" Ruth asks, as he helps her onto the train, noticing her anxiety, and so grasping her hand to steady her.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." He has already given her her rail pass, and pointed her towards the door which leads to the sleeping compartments. "Go," he says, patting her arm.

"What about you?"

"Go. Go now."

So she does, although she'd rather he come with her, showing her which sleeper is hers. She is too anxious for sleep. She could have shared a compartment with Theodore. She has little idea where Harry might be. She hopes he is safe, and that he will be waiting for her in Amsterdam.

She drags her bag down the corridor to the sleeping compartment which is to be hers. She pushes open the door, and as she enters the darkened space she notices a figure sitting in a chair, their form silhouetted against the window. Ruth stands still for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"Hello," he says, "you took your time."


	2. Chapter 2

Ingolstadt, Germany - Wednesday, early morning:

Ruth stands very still. She is having to take a moment to absorb what she is seeing. He hadn't told her he'd be taking the same train. While they'd been gathering her possessions ready to leave, he had said something about getting to Amsterdam before her, and she'd not questioned that. She'd presumed he'd be taking an earlier train, or that he had a driver who would get him there by autobahn. One could make it across the country rather quickly when travelling at 120 km/hour.

He gets to his feet, and slowly takes one step to close the distance between them. He looks down at her, a small smile lifting his cheeks. He reaches down to grasp her free hand, lifting it until his warm lips press against her cool skin. There is a lot she wants to say to him. Mostly, she wants to say his name, then she wants to sink against him, allowing him to prop her up, to be her strength, because she has so little strength left, her own having been shattered by the hair-raising journey in Theodore's car. She wants to ask him to take her to bed, to make room for her to curl up against his warmth while he holds her.

She says nothing, but she hopes he can read her intention in her eyes as she gazes into his. "Who did you expect?" he asks at last.

"I thought .. I'd have the … cabin to myself."

Harry's smile widens at her use of the word, `cabin'. He thinks the correct word might be compartment, but he's not sure. The correct name for the cabin on a German train may well be _der Alkoven,_ or even _die Nische._ He knew what name to use thirty years ago, but he was young then, and Germany was an exciting and sometimes dangerous place for a young spy. He's sure it doesn't much matter what they call their cabin/niche/compartment. Until they reach the border in around six and a half hours they'll be in this small space together – alone – and _that_ is all that matters.

"If you wish to use the … facilities .. they're further along this corridor," he says, his eyes moving above her head and to his right.

Ruth nods, and then opens her bag, scratching around for a towel and her toothbrush and toothpaste. She knows Harry is watching her every move, but she can't look at him. He's probably smiling at her in that way he always had when he'd found her words or actions to be quaint. She hurries from the cabin, closing the door behind her.

In the bathroom at the end of the carriage she is the only one using the facilities. Given it is some minutes after 1 am this is not surprising. As she brushes her teeth, Ruth watches herself in the mirror. Her hair is awry and her eyes are a little wild. Small wonder Harry had stared at her. She looks like someone who had run the whole way from her town to the train.

She is rinsing her toothbrush when she pulls up a memory she had deliberately pushed away, never to be looked at again. On the night the team had met in Adam's flat, just after the murder of Colin Wells, Ruth had found herself in Harry's car as he drove them to the pub. "I should really go home," she'd said, looking across to where Harry had expertly manoeuvred his car through the night, his face grim. He'd glanced at her but said nothing.

The team had gathered at a pub where Jo and Zaf often drank. The pub was small and quaint and cosy, and as they settled around a round table, they sat in their pairs – Zaf and Jo, Adam and Malcolm, Harry and Ruth. Ros Myers had popped in for a while, but had left early. They drank slowly, but said little, other than Malcolm, who by the end of the night had told every story he knew about Colin, including some stories from his own youth.

Ruth and Harry had sat close to one another, and as the others had drifted away, most heading home, Harry had moved his chair closer to hers, and eventually he'd reached under the table to grasp her hand in his, drawing it across to rest on his knee. It had been the first time they'd touched in a way which had acknowledged the growing intimacy between them. Ruth has no memory of what they'd talked about that night, as they'd sat, just the two of them, enjoying being together. When she'd asked him to drive her home, he had stood, taking her coat from the back of a spare chair, holding it out for her to slip her arms into. Then, from behind her, he'd grasped her arms and very gradually drawn her back so that she leaned against him. She'd felt his lips kiss her cheek, and then she'd turned in his arms and he'd kissed her again, this time on her lips. As he'd kissed her, Ruth had reminded herself that Harry was hurting, grieving the loss of another valuable member of his team. The kiss hadn't meant anything. He'd just needed comfort, and she was a safe and convenient source of comfort.

When they reached Ruth's house he'd seen her to the door, and again he'd leaned in and kissed her. As she looks at her reflection in the mirror she can still remember that kiss, how it felt to have his warm lips against hers, his body pressed against her. When he'd pulled away she'd heard a whimper from her own throat. She'd wanted the kiss to go on. She'd wanted to invite him inside, to stay with her until dawn, when they'd be woken by birdsong outside her bedroom window, but he'd made his excuses and quickly left.

They never again spoke of that night. Next day it was business as usual on the Grid, although the mood had been sombre for the remainder of the week. They had all missed Colin, although Malcolm had missed him more than most. And then, only weeks later, Harry had asked her to have dinner with him, and again Ruth's hopes had risen. It had been a strange evening. Harry had been nervous, and formal, and rather proper towards her. His goodnight kiss had been careful, and compared with the kisses at the time Colin had died, surprisingly chaste.

Ruth had been confused, so that by the time she'd considered his second invitation to dinner, she decided that to pursue anything with Harry would be a very bad idea. He was her boss; he was so much older than her; and he needed her – or something he saw in her, because Ruth had had no idea what it was Harry wanted with her. She'd concluded that she was very good at providing comfort, and Harry had wanted her to comfort him. She had thought she loved him, but she had soon talked herself out of it.

So on that bitterly cold morning when she'd stepped on the tug boat which was to take her away from Harry forever, she knew she'd been lying to herself, and she also knew – too late – how much Harry cared for her. She'd shown her love for him by leaving him, just as he is showing her his love for her by finding her, and then risking his safety by bringing her home.

She finds that she is still staring at her image in the mirror, but the wild eyes have softened, and her hair, while untidy, is not so bad. She hears a gentle knocking on the door. "Ruth?"

"I'm coming," she says, repacking her toiletry bag.

When she joins him in the corridor she is able to see the worry around his mouth. Had he thought she'd again left him? Poor Harry. She has no plans to leave him, but she's not sure how to tell him. She decides that she should stay by his side, and make no sudden moves. She grasps his hand as he leads her back along the corridor. She is sure she can see the slight curve of a smile on his lips.

* * *

Back in their compartment, sleeping arrangements have to me made. "You choose whether you want to be on the top or the bottom," he says. "It's my turn to use the facilities," and then he quickly leaves the compartment. For a moment Ruth misunderstands, but she soon realises that he is referring to the top or the bottom bunk. She chooses the bottom. She is sure were she to sleep on the top bed she'd fall off.

When Harry returns she is already in bed, and his mood has changed. He is no longer the gentle, sensitive lover-to-be. He is her rescuer, and he still has a job to do. He slips his toilet bag into the outer pocket of his small backpack, and then stands, looking down at her. "I'll be spending the next hour or so with Theodore," he says quietly, his voice deeper than usual, like he is sharing a secret. "There have been some complications."

Ruth sits up in bed, holding the bedcovers in front her her to cover her chest. She is irritated by her own false modesty, although Harry appears to not have noticed. "Are you returning here to sleep?" she asks.

"Yes." He waits, watching her, assessing her frame of mind. "You're safe here, Ruth," he says. "There is only one entrance to this carriage, and Theodore's compartment is right by that doorway. At least one of us must remain awake, and since he has driven you here, I think that should be me."

Harry leaves quickly, without looking back at her. Ruth is surprised by her own level of disappointment. She had imagined them falling asleep in the same cabin, perhaps exchanging some small intimacies before they fell asleep. Perhaps Harry is taking himself from her to consult with Theodore, or perhaps he is taking himself from a situation which may tempt him in ways he doesn't wish to be tempted, especially when they are still far from being safe. She closes her eyes and begins emptying her mind of her worries about the future.

* * *

When Ruth awakes it is still night time, and listening for the sound of another person breathing, she appears to be alone in her compartment. "Harry?" she says aloud, but there is no answer. She climbs out of her bed and checks the top bunk, but it hasn't been slept in. Even though the inside of the compartment is pleasantly warm, she crawls back under the covers and waits. She is close to falling asleep again when the door opens silently, and she sees Harry's bulk moving towards the beds.

"You've been gone a while," she says, not even knowing whether that is true.

"You should be asleep," he says. "Theodore has decided to stay awake, and he suggested I get a couple hours more sleep. We reach the border just after 6," he says, peeling off his clothes, until he appears to be wearing only black trunks and a black t-shirt.

"You can climb in with me," Ruth says, knowing he'll turn down her offer. "We can keep one another warm."

Harry stands so close to the beds that his body is right in her line of sight, and having grown accustomed to the dark, she can see the outline of his genitals inside his trunks. She knows he'd rather sleep with her, and she also knows that he will not take up her offer. "Were I to climb in with you, Ruth, I don't think there'd be much sleeping .. do you?" And he pulls himself up to climb into the top bunk.

"I suppose not," she says, wondering what had possessed her into making that suggestion. What must he think of her?

Ruth is wide awake, and with Harry lying less than a metre away, she is distracted by his proximity. After around five minutes of silence, she can no longer remain silent. Since he arrived at her flat to take her home they have barely spoken, other than to discuss the plans for her escape. They have not spoken about anything personal, and Ruth wonders why. She is frustrated by this, and when she hears Harry clearing his throat, she decides to speak to him about something which has been bothering her for over two years.

"Harry .." she begins.

"Yes?" Given his voice is not sleepy, she knows that, like her, he has been lying in bed wide awake.

"Something has been bothering me," she says. "There's something I need to know. It's about what happened back in London, before I left." When he doesn't say anything she continues. "After Colin died, and we were close for that one evening … do you remember?"

"Of course I remember."

"Why did you never mention it again? It was as though it never happened."

"Why didn't you, Ruth? I was waiting for you to say something, and when you didn't, I thought … I was sure you'd regretted what happened between us. And then everything which happened after that seemed to confirm my fears."

"I was waiting for you," she says quietly, realising then how powerful had been their unspoken thoughts, thoughts and wishes held back and never articulated. She sighs heavily, and then she is sure she can hear Harry sighing.

"There's quite a lot we need to talk about," he says quietly, "but now isn't the time. If all goes according to plan, we'll be staying in Amsterdam for at least two nights before we fly to London. That would be a good time for us to …" Another unfinished sentence. "We need to sleep," he says, "and as much as I'd rather be talking to you for the couple of hours before the border, I don't think we should."

At last Ruth understands. How could she have forgotten? For Harry and Theodore, this is an operation, and an important one. Clearly it has personal significance for Harry. If not, he would have sent someone else to retrieve her, someone like Adam Carter or Zaf Younis. Again, Ruth closes her eyes, and allows her body to relax.

* * *

When Ruth again opens her eyes she is being shaken awake by Harry's hand on her shoulder. "Ruth," he is saying, "it's time to wake up," so that by the time they reach the border they are both dressed for the day, and with just a little under an hour before they reach Amsterdam, Ruth is beginning to experience nervous anticipation.

For much of the hour between the border and their destination, Ruth is alone in their compartment, as Harry leaves her so that he can once more check with Theodore. Harry only returns to her compartment once the train reaches the outskirts of the city.

"There might be a bit of a problem when we get there," he says, "but Theodore and a mate of his have organised another hotel for us, and they'll provide a distraction at the train station."

The thought of Theodore having `mates' briefly amuses Ruth, but her main concern is the slight smile on Harry's lips. "This is funny?" she says, mildly outraged.

"I wasn't smiling at our predicament, Ruth, although it is reminiscent of many … adventures Theo and I shared in the past. We were younger then, and we were often stupid along with it. I'm just .. happy you are with me."

Schiphol airport and train station is like a city within a city. Ruth had visited Amsterdam briefly in her university days. She had even met a boy here, but had only known him for a day before she and her friend had moved on. As they leave the train, Harry carries her luggage, leaving her free to look around her. She sees nothing out of place, and grasping Harry's hand, she walks with him towards the gate. They have been travelling on Danish passports as Ruth and Daniel Sorenson.

Suddenly, they hear loud voices from behind them, and needing to know exactly what is happening, Ruth turns to look. In the middle of the platform she sees Theodore and another man arguing loudly in Dutch, occasionally slipping into English, but then cursing one another in Dutch. She turns back to check the line in front of them, but there is no-one there she recognises. She hears Harry saying "come _on_ ," his voice conveying his irritation with how slowly the line is moving. Ruth looks up to see the two men who had sat outside her building in Germany descending from an upper floor on the escalator. She quickly looks down, relieved that they appear to not have seen her and Harry, their attention having been captured by the two men who are now shouting and gesticulating, and the couple who appear to be at the centre of the skirmish, but who have not joined in – a couple who closely resemble her and Harry.

Ruth grasps Harry's hand more tightly, and pushes through the line. "You can't do that," he says in her ear.

"I just have."

Very soon they are out of the main station, and Harry is hailing a taxi. "We have to change plans. We can't stay in any of the hotels in Schiphol," he says. "We have to head into the city."

* * *

In their hotel Harry is enjoying a much needed shower, while Ruth unpacks her bag. She has very little in the way of possessions, and this has not bothered her until now. When there is a knock at their door, Ruth hesitates, but opens it, because they are expecting Theodore to arrive with Harry's bag, which had been left at the hotel he'd booked for them in Schiphol. Ruth greets the older man with a warm hug. Even though she'd only spent two hours with him, to her he already feels like an old friend.

"All quiet at the train station?" she says, smiling, once she has moved from his embrace.

"I enjoyed myself, and so did Erik. It's good to let one's hair down occasionally. Your stand-ins also made it out of there, and we lost the Russians. The couple who are posing as you – Anneke and John – are remaining in plain sight for a while, at least until you leave Amsterdam."

"Thank you for what you have done," Ruth says shyly.

Harry has finished his shower, and wrapped in a hotel bathrobe, he walks bare foot into the room. Ruth thinks that he looks like any ordinary man, although Harry has never been ordinary. She leaves them to talk, while she showers. By the time she finishes in the bathroom, Theodore has left, and Harry is dressed in slacks and a shirt and jacket. It is already mid morning, and hours since they have eaten.

Harry takes her out for a brunch of pancakes and coffee, and then they wander around the city, ducking out of the way of mopeds and bicycles, until they are standing outside the Van Gogh Museum. Ruth looks up at him, her eyes shining, and he smiles and nods, and then leads her to the main door.

* * *

They eat dinner in their room. Ruth is dressed for bed, while Harry is still in his day clothes. Ruth finds that she is too nervous to eat very much. She has little idea what will happen next. She and Harry are sharing a double room, a room with only one bed, although it is a very large bed. "Will we be sleeping together tonight?" she asks, watching him closely.

"Do you want us to?"

"That's not answering my question," she says, disappointed by his evasiveness.

Harry takes so long to reply that Ruth assumes he has said all he has to say on the subject. He is buttering a slice of bread when, very quietly and carefully, he begins to talk. "I hadn't wanted or expected to have this conversation until we are back in London, but .. since you've brought it up .."

"I only asked about us sharing the bed, Harry, nothing more."

He lifts his eyes to meet hers, and to Ruth he appears angry. She knows Harry. She needs to let him speak. "The subtext to your question is clear, Ruth. You're asking whether I'm expecting sex. The answer to that is no, I am not expecting it, but that doesn't mean that I don't want it .. with you. The feelings I had for you at the time you left London have not .. diminished." Ruth nods, watching him, shocked by his openness. She is not sure she could match his level of honesty. How can she possibly say, _I ache for you_? She'd never get the words out. "So .. I will leave you to .. retire and fall asleep, while I visit Theodore and share a whisky or two, after which I will return to this room and sleep beside you." He has finished buttering two slices of bread, and so he takes a bite from one slice, and keeps his eyes down while he chews. "Besides," he says after a while, "it's been … a while for me." When Ruth doesn't answer, he watches her, but she refuses him eye contact. "To which you're meant ask how long is a while."

She lifts her eyes to him, and he can see the pain of loss in her eyes. "Perhaps I don't want to know the answer to that question. Perhaps I wish to believe that you spent the last two years waiting for me," and then she quickly drops her eyes, "as unrealistic as that is."

"I don't think it matters much who or whether we have been with other people these past two years," he says. "Right now .. at this moment .. any … encounters I may have had while you were away are rendered meaningless."

Ruth looks up and nods. She likes the sound of that. Were she being completely honest with him, she would have to mention Jerome, the man who lives in her building back in Germany, and with whom she'd shared an understanding. When she'd first met him, Jerome's wife had been dead only 15 months, and he missed her terribly. They moved easily into a friendship, perhaps based on their shared love of literature, but they were also drawn to one another by their shared experience of loss. Over time they had become friends with benefits. They had enjoyed their occasional sexual encounters, but it had just been comfort sex and nothing more. Ruth had loved Jerome like a friend, but there had never been a place for him in her heart. How could there when her heart belonged to Harry?

After dinner Harry excuses himself and leaves, while Ruth climbs into bed and reads for a while, before she allows herself to relax. When Harry returns at a few minutes before midnight she is asleep, and when she wakes in the morning he is already in the shower. There are no awkward moments of will they or won't they, and for that she feels sad.

They spend the day out. In the morning they visit Old Amsterdam and the red light district, and after a lunch of pancakes they take a tour on a houseboat, a treat planned and paid for by Theodore. For their final night in the hotel they again eat dinner in their room, but since Theodore is visiting his daughter and son-in-law, Harry is dressed ready for bed. They are both rather quiet, sad to be leaving next day to enter the real world.

"Before we return to London," Harry says quietly, once they have finished eating, and are finishing the last of the wine, "there are some things you need to know."

Harry reaches out to grasp her hand, and she squeezes his hand in return. Then he begins to talk. He tells her about the people she had loved, and who are no longer with them. He tells her of some of the operations which had troubled him, and taxed his patience. He shares with her his concern that Malcolm is about to retire, and he relates the recent death of Connie James, which had motivated him to approach Malcolm, asking him to track down Ruth's whereabouts so that he could find her and bring her home. He shares with her how much he has missed her, and how, had a sniper aimed for his head and not his chest, he would no longer be alive to tell her about it.

Ruth sheds a few tears, but not as many as she would have had she been working on the Grid, swimming in a sea of involvement and concern. It all seems so distant to her, like it has occurred on another planet, and in a different time. Mostly, she is angry with Harry for getting shot.

"I was wearing a Kevlar vest, Ruth."

"But you still got shot. I can remember telling you to not get shot."

Harry remains quiet. He has been reprimanded, but mostly he is pleased that she cares as she does.

They are sitting quite close to one another, when without warning she gets up and walks to the window, gazing out upon Amsterdam by night. She expects him to follow her, but he doesn't. Her head is full of all her unspoken fears … fears about her and Harry, and whether, once they return to London, their growing intimacy will be lost.

"What is it?" he says quietly, his voice resonating through her. Without her knowledge he has crossed the floor, his bare feet making no noise on the carpet; she feels the heat from his body from behind her. Ruth sways slightly, and she feels Harry's arms slide around her waist, drawing her back until she rests against him. Oh, how easy it would be to trust him totally, but she can't. How can she when there is so much she doesn't know about him. "Tell me, Ruth."

How can she tell him everything about her time away from London without hurting him? She can't just fall against him and forget the things they haven't yet said. How can she tell him that she doesn't trust herself to take this step with him, in case she ends up breaking his heart .. or he breaking hers?

"This is so .."

"Right?" he finishes her sentence.

"It's dangerous, Harry. We're a long way from home, and we're in a nice hotel, and .. you know what I mean."

Ruth turns in his arms, pulling away from him a little. She watches him closely, and she can see he is disappointed. As much as she longs for him, she is sure that what he has been implying since they started dinner is a bad idea. "Right," he says, turning back to the table where they ate their dinner, "I'll tidy this, while you use the bathroom."

And that is that. Once the practical matters are dealt with they climb into bed, bid each other goodnight, and then turn away from each other. Ruth quickly falls asleep, while Harry remains awake for some time . He is disappointed with how the evening has turned out, and he is angry with himself. He'd acted too soon, and she is annoyed by his need of her. She has been alone in the world for over two years and she needs to be able to trust him. While he is considering how likely it is that they will live together once they return home, he falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

London – 5 days later:

Ruth has wandered through the shops, buying nothing, even though she badly needs more clothes. Harry has rung her, asking her to meet him for lunch on the embankment, so she has purchased sandwiches, and is searching for an empty bench close to where they'd regularly sat together, before she'd left London. She feels herself being drawn back in time. This is the place where, safely away from the Grid and the eyes of their colleagues, she and Harry had talked freely. Along with the roof terrace, they had conducted their long and tangled non-relationship here. Finding a free bench seat, Ruth sits, letting her body sink against the wooden slats, enjoying the freedom of being in this city – _her_ city.

Since arriving in London five days earlier, Ruth has gradually allowed her body and mind to flow out into the world which surrounds her, to take up space, to be seen, to belong. She is no longer on the run, hiding in the shadows, watching from darkened corners, waiting for a heavy hand to descend upon her shoulder. She can sit back on the bench, owning it for these few precious minutes. She is alive again, and she is free. She tips back her head, and smiles up at the grey sky.

She senses someone approaching, and she turns to see, not Harry, but Malcolm Wynn-Jones walking slowly towards her. He hesitates, and then a slow smile softens his features. "Ruth," he says, approaching her with more confidence, "it's so good to see you."

Ruth smiles up at him, patting the seat beside her. "Hello, Malcolm. I'm expecting Harry, but he seems to be late."

Again Malcolm hesitates before he sits, leaving some distance between them. "I'm here on his behalf, I'm afraid. He sends his apologies, and needs you to know he'll pick up dinner on his way home, so you shouldn't concern yourself about that."

Ruth nods, as Malcolm moves on the bench, as if searching for the sweet spot on which to place himself. He is a kind man, too kind to be doing the job he does. The security service is a harsh environment for sensitive souls. She should know. She considers asking why Harry hadn't thought to ring her himself, but Malcolm is already their go-between, so it's unfair to be burdening him with further questions. "How are you, Malcolm?" she asks, turning to face him.

He sighs heavily, which is not a good sign. Harry had already shared with her his suspicion that Malcolm is about to retire. "I'm all right, I suppose. Things are .. as they were when you left, but ..." He stares across the river to the other side.

"But?"

He turns his attention back to Ruth, turning his body to mirror hers. "I think I've had enough. I'm .. rather tired of everything. I feel like the more we do, the more dangerous and precarious the world becomes. It's an environment I no longer enjoy. I'm considering retiring. It's just that I'm reluctant to tell Harry. He seems to rely on me quite a lot, especially since .. Connie James .."

Ruth isn't sure whether she should mention that Harry already suspects he is thinking of retiring, but the Grid is a closed community, and if someone has a thought, the rest of the team know, even before the thought is spoken aloud. "I'm sorry to hear that, although I understand. Strangely, given everything that's happened, I'm hoping to get back there rather soon."

"Harry discovered today that you should have your own identity back within a week, perhaps two. I know that's a long time, but perhaps you can begin working from home."

Ruth nods. She's not yet ready to be in the centre of things. "I'm rather enjoying reacquainting myself with London. Even though it's only been two years, so much has changed." Ruth remembers the sandwiches. "Have you eaten? I brought lunch for Harry and me. You can choose."

Malcolm shakes his head. "Thank you, Ruth, but no. I have an apple and a banana on my desk. I'll munch on them when I return to work." He looks away for a moment, and Ruth can see that he is choosing his words carefully. "Harry has given me the job of checking out the people who were … watching you in Germany. I have had to follow a number of leads, and a picture is now emerging."

"Were they actually watching me, do you think?"

"It's hard to say. I suspect they were hired to keep an eye on you, hoping that Harry would turn up. The two men in the car were Russian, with links to the FSB – perhaps on contract - which would suggest Harry was their target."

"But how did they know where I was? Who I am? I used a legend. I kept to myself."

"Not quite, it would seem."

His words shock Ruth. "What do you mean?"

"I discovered that one of the Russian men had regular phone contact with a resident in your building – someone you knew well. He may have been the one -"

"Who? I knew most of the residents in my building, some of them quite well."

"The phone calls were traced to Flat 8 .." Ruth's eyes widen. "The caller was a man by the name of Jerome Schmid."

" _Jerome_? That's impossible." Ruth knows that it is entirely possible for Jerome to have been the informant. How could she have been so … careless, and _stupid_? She flops against the back of the bench, breathing out heavily. She glances at Malcolm, and his eyes show understanding and … sympathy. For Ruth, the day has suddenly become very grey.

"You were close to him," Malcolm says. It is not a question.

"For a while," she says, not wishing to share details, even with Malcolm, especially since she had not said anything to Harry.

"It appears he remained in that flat for as long as he did to .. befriend you."

Ruth waits, one hand gripping the other in her lap while she takes it all in. She doesn't want to be having this conversation. What was she meant to do when this man was kind to her, had made her cups of coffee, and then one rainy afternoon had taken her to his bed? What was she to do when he told her of his wife's death just over a year earlier? She had lost someone, he had lost someone. They had gone to bed together thinking of other people, but enjoying the brief comfort to be found in the body of the other. "His wife had died," she said at last, "and I was grieving what .. I had lost, so .."

Malcolm nods, hopefully understanding what she is not prepared to say. "I happen to know that his wife is very much alive," he says gently. "She lives in Frankfurt, where she works for Opel. He visits her every month or so."

Ruth gives herself time to absorb this information, a heaviness forming in her belly. "Why doesn't he live with her?"

"It's likely he will now that you have returned home. His work with the Russians is over for now."

Ruth is still trying to take in everything Malcolm is telling her. "I've been a fool, haven't I? I let my guard down with him, and I was … completely taken in by his story."

"He's a very good agent, and as you know, agents lie for a living." Ruth nods. "Did you … love him?" Malcolm asks carefully.

Ruth shakes her head. "Not in the way you mean. I valued his friendship, and we .." She can't articulate the words, `we slept together'. "I wasn't .. free to love anybody, not when I already ..." and she leaves the sentence unfinished. Malcolm can complete the sentence himself.

"I thought I should tell you face to face, before Harry gives you the news, which he will. Does he know about this man?"

Ruth shakes her head, feeling very sad, wishing she could snap her fingers and turn back the clock. "I thought it best he doesn't know, and I suspect he'd rather not know."

"I agree. He can be .."

Ruth nods. Harry can be a lot of things, and perhaps jealous is one of them.

* * *

Once Malcolm returns to work, Ruth remains sitting on the bench, her hands folded in her lap, watching the constant activity on the river; tugboats travel in both directions, reminding her of her sudden departure from London over two years earlier. She hasn't touched her sandwiches. Malcolm's news has dulled her appetite. She can't believe she'd not seen Jerome's behaviour as anything other than a demonstration of caring and compassion. To think that all the time she'd known him he'd been measuring and calculating, moving her around like a piece on a chess board, creating a compatible legend for himself, inviting her to his bed, listening to her, asking her questions which seemed harmless rather than calculated, reporting their conversations to a third party. Ruth is angry, but mostly she is angry with herself.

Malcolm's news has put a new slant on everything. She had thought she knew how she'd spent her time in that German town, and why. Malcolm's news about Jerome has shown her that she didn't know everything, and that she should have been more careful. Surely Harry knows about Jerome, and knowing Harry, he will have an opinion about it.

She has even been foolish where Harry is concerned. After having spent two enjoyable, but wary days and nights in Amsterdam, once they returned to London, Harry suggested she stay with him until she'd either found somewhere else to live, or decides to remain under his roof, with him. He hadn't pushed her; he had merely suggested that living with him was an option. Taking his suggestion as Harry being polite and proper, she had decided she should sleep in his spare room, and so since leaving Amsterdam they had not shared a bed. In the light of the news about Jerome Schmid being an agent for the Russians, this had been a wise move.

Ruth is still sitting on the bench by the Thames, staring across the river, when she feels another presence close to her. Lifting her eyes she sees Harry approaching her slowly, his face showing an uncharacteristic wariness.

"I thought you had a meeting," Ruth says, sitting up straight and patting the seat beside her.

Harry sits on the bench beside Ruth, but not so close that he touches her. "I was half way there when Bob's wife rang to say he was having chest pains, and so she was about to drive him to hospital." Harry glances at her and makes a face. "He's only four years older than I am."

"Being a section head at Six was clearly more stressful, Harry."

"Bob always was a stress-head."

"Maybe he misses being in the thick of it."

Harry rolls his eyes and smiles. "He couldn't wait to retire. He left a month after he turned fifty-five. I still need the information he has on the Russians. I'll wait another couple of days and then ring him."

They sit for a few minutes, watching the constant activity on the Thames. "I still have your sandwich," Ruth says, handing him his chicken and salad sandwich.

"Jesus, Ruth, you'll have me healthy in no time. Normally I'd be eating a handful of chocolate digestives washed down with a couple of mugs of sugary coffee."

Ruth watches him while he unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite. She loves to watch him; his hands move deftly, while his dark eyes focus on the task. She waits for Harry to be half way through his sandwich before she speaks. "I spoke to Malcolm," she says.

Harry nods and glances at her, before he wipes his mouth with the paper serviette she had given him. "Did he say anything about retiring?"

Ruth is relieved that Harry's chief concern is the continued employment of his chief technical officer. "I don't like talking behind his back," she says. "It feels … wrong."

"I know he wants to, Ruth. It's no surprise to anybody on the Grid. I've even suggested he search for a replacement before he leaves."

"What did he say to that?"

"He just nodded. I believe it's only a matter of time."

"He told me he's tired."

Again Harry nods. "We're all tired. The job demands everything. After a while it … rankles."

"You seem to have endless reserves of energy."

"It's all down to smoke and mirrors. Like anyone else, I get exhausted, but I have to .. set an example."

Of course he does. Harry is the leader of the pack. Ruth resists an urge to touch him.

By the time Harry finishes his sandwich he is looking at his watch. "I have to go, Ruth. I don't want to, but -"

"I know." She reaches out and lays her hand on his arm. In an unexpected gesture, Harry reaches across and places a quick kiss on Ruth's lips. Her eyes are open, and with the kiss they widen even more. "What was that for?" she asks.

"Because I want to," he says, before he stands. "I'll bring home dinner," he adds, and then he quickly leaves.

Ruth sits by the Thames for a while longer, imagining that she and Harry are a couple, and they have just met during their lunch hour. Is this what she wants for herself .. for them? She no longer possesses the certainty she'd held close to her throughout her exile. She was gone a long time, and she is no longer sure what it is she wants. She is planning to return to the Grid to work – to a job she had always loved and valued – but as for her and Harry, she cannot grasp how she really feels about that. Of course she knows she loves him, and perhaps always has, but what does that really mean? Does it mean she is prepared to settle down with him? Only a few years earlier she would have jumped at the chance of settling down with Harry. Now? Now, she no longer knows what she wants, other than a deep desire to again feel safe .. and secure.

* * *

By the time Harry arrives home from work, Ruth has showered and changed, and has packed away all her purchases in the wardrobe in the guest room. They sit at the dining table to eat, and when the meal is eaten, they sit over the remainder of the wine. Their conversation is sporadic, and chiefly about what has been happening on the Grid, and Ruth is almost certain that Harry is waiting for her to spill the beans about Jerome Schmid. She wants to say something, but she can't .. she just can't. Learning from Malcolm about Jerome's true reasons for befriending her has dented her confidence, leaving a core of embarrassment which she is reluctant to openly acknowledge, especially to Harry.

Once Harry has poured the last of the wine into their glasses, Ruth quickly stands, grabbing the empty bottle, and their plates, and hurrying through the doorway to the kitchen, where she places the glasses, plates and cutlery on the sink, and stands staring through the window. It is dark outside, and in the reflected glow from the streetlights she can see the glistening of moisture on the leaves of the trees in Harry's back garden. She stares into the night, wondering what Harry must think of her. Surely he must know about her liaison with Schmid, and perhaps that is the reason he has spoken so little since arriving home with their dinner.

First Ruth detects his scent, and next she feels his body warmth from behind her. Prior to them eating dinner he had removed his jacket and tie, and pulled off his shoes, leaving them on the floor beside the staircase. Behind her she can detect the unique smell of him – the smell of his skin, with the slightest whiff of his familiar cologne. She turns to find him standing close to her, staring down at her.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Something is wrong. Did I say something -?"

Ruth shakes her head, leaning back against the edge of the sink to put as much distance between them as she can. "It's … nothing."

"It must be something. You took off so quickly with those plates I thought you had somewhere more important to be."

Should she speak about it? She believes she must, because it is clear he is not about to. "When I met Malcolm at lunchtime," she begins, "he told me about the man in my building in Germany who was reporting back to the Russians."

Harry nods. "I thought he might."

The only illumination in the kitchen is from the light above the cooker, which casts shadows across their faces. Harry's face is almost totally in shadow, and so she has difficulty determining his expression, although she knows his dark eyes are watching her closely. "You haven't said anything about it," she says quietly. She notices Harry's shoulders rise and then fall as he sighs heavily, his expelled breath warm on the skin of her forehead.

"I think that if anyone is to initiate conversation about that it should be you, Ruth."

Ruth drops her eyes, because for reasons she can't explain, his continued scrutiny of her has her feeling guilty .. about what happened with Jerome. "I was lonely," she begins quietly, "and he was kind to me. I hadn't even thought he might be .. watching me."

"I know."

"I only slept with him perhaps .. three times, and then only during the last couple of months." When Harry says nothing, she looks up to find his eyes still on her. "I thought I'd never see you again." She knows her excuse is lame, but she doesn't know what else to say. "That's about it," she adds quietly.

"Ruth, as … glad as I am that you have told me about this, I have no right to an explanation."

"But my actions could have put your life in danger. You could have been -"

"But I wasn't. I have people, too. There is a whole network of agents willing to help me, wherever I am in the world, although as time passes their number is dwindling." He takes a small step closer, so that the space between his body and her own could be closed with the release of the breath she is holding.

Very slowly Ruth expels her breath, which presses her breasts against his abdomen. She closes her eyes, trying to think of something other than the exquisite pressure of his body against hers. When she again opens her eyes he is still watching her. "Do you want me to leave?" she asks.

"Leave? Why?"

"I've .. betrayed you, putting you in danger. I expected you to be angry."

Harry shakes his head, and she is sure he is pressing even closer to her. She can feel his breath against her face as he looks down at her. "I'm not angry, Ruth. I'm ..."

"What?"

"I'm in awe of you. And I'm insanely jealous of Jerome Schmid."

Ruth waits for him to say more, but that us all he says. When he smiles into her eyes, she returns his smile. She'd like to ask him exactly why he is in awe of her, but perhaps that can be left for another day. "Are you sure you don't want me to leave?" she asks.

"There are a lot of things in my life about which I am confused and unsure, but one of them is not my wish for you to stay here .. with me. I want that very much. I thought you knew."

Ruth had not planned the words which next tumble from her mouth, but almost before she is aware of it, they are spoken. "Jerome was a very … kind, but … quite unimaginative lover."

When she again looks up into Harry's eyes he is smiling. "I am quite imaginative, Ruth. In fact ... I'm imagining now."

A warm flush suffuses her body, settling in her lower abdomen. She feels moistening between her thighs, and as she watches Harry, she is sure he knows. Afterwards, Ruth could not have said who had made the first move, but she suspects it may have been her. She has waited so long for him, and she has even doubted herself in relation to him. And then he has said he wants her to stay in his house .. with him. Harry is not normally an effusive man. His statement is the Harry equivalent of a proposition.

Is this what she wants? Well, she has spent over two years of her life without Harry, during which she was often miserable and lonely. She looks up to see his face drawing closer. Without thinking, because she knows how she is capable of talking herself out of what is about to happen, Ruth reaches up and winds her arms around his neck. Harry slides his arms around her, pulling her so close to him that she can barely breathe. When they kiss it is not like the kisses they have exchanged since he had turned up at her flat a week earlier, kisses which were warm and chaste. He is kissing her like his plan is to taste every inch of her skin. While his lips are soft, his tongue is hard, sliding around her teeth, and then exploring her own tongue. Someone is moaning, and it may well be her. Ruth brings her hands down from the back of his neck, flicking open his shirt buttons as she goes, until she is free to run her palms over the skin of his chest, surprisingly smooth and almost hairless.

It is when Harry slides his knee between her legs, and lifts her shirt from the waistband of her skirt that she pulls back and away from him. His face shows surprise and even hurt. "We need to go upstairs," she says, watching his mouth, the same mouth she'd once watched from afar, wondering how he would taste, and whether he could kiss as well as she imagined.

"Mmm," he hums, and kisses her again, pressing his groin against her belly.

"Your bed," she adds, and he ignores her. " _Harry_ ," she says with more emphasis, and he slowly and very reluctantly pulls away from her, to grasp her hand and lead her from the room.

Once they enter Harry's bedroom they tear off their clothes, discarding them on the floor in a trail from the doorway to the side of the bed. By the time he lays her down on his bed they are both naked. He then lies beside her, his skin touching hers from chest to ankle. "Is this what you want, Ruth?" he asks, after having spent long moments kissing the tender skin beneath her ear, and then her throat.

"It is," she says, and until that moment, she had not been sure. Now she wonders what took her so long.

* * *

Ruth wakes to unfamiliar surroundings. She has never before slept in this room, although given the many rooms she has slept in during the past two years, one more should hardly be surprising to her. What _is_ surprising is that this is Harry's bedroom, and beside her in bed Harry sleeps peacefully, his chest rising and falling slowly, his face relaxed in sleep. Worried that she will wake him, she slides out of bed, and quickly and quietly leaves the room, gathering her clothes from the night before. In the guest room she throws on her pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers before creeping downstairs.

In the kitchen Ruth makes herself a pot of tea. While she is waiting for the kettle to boil she notices the time on the microwave oven – 5.21 am. Ruth has no idea what time Harry likes to wake in the morning, since in few days she has lived there he has risen before she has woken. Just this once she believes he could do with a lie-in.

While she sips her tea, she gazes around her, pondering the space between the table and the sink, where they had only the night before enjoyed their first passionate kiss. How could she have hesitated, worried – all over again – that being with Harry would be a bad idea, and that he would use her and then throw her aside? He is without doubt the most dogged and loyal lover she has ever had. But what now? Will they simply drift into an exclusive bond, much like marriage, but without the ceremony? And is Harry a good risk? According to legend, his past is littered with women whom he has loved and then discarded. Is she about to become another statistic? While in bed the night before they had exchanged very few words, and so the subject of any future together had not come up.

Ruth hears the shower running upstairs. She makes a fresh pot of tea and several slices of toast. She is tucking into the first slice when Harry appears in the kitchen doorway, dressed and ready for work. He hesitates, smiling across the room at her, and then strides to her side to reach down and kiss her. "Good morning," he says, wiping the butter from her top lip with his thumb. "You look good enough to eat." The smouldering look he gives her is almost enough to have her grabbing his hand and dragging him back upstairs. She knows that this early expression of passion, so intense and overwhelming for them both, will fade with time.

"You have an early meeting?" she asks, checking the time on the microwave oven – almost 6.30.

Harry stands away from her and seats himself across the corner of the table from her, while she pours him a cup of tea, and pushes the toast towards him. "I'll just have this tea, Ruth. I'll eat something at the hospital." When Ruth looks up at him, a question in her eyes, he smiles gently. "Bob Blackmore rang me from his hospital room. He's being kept in another night for observation, but he's asked me to visit him this morning, before I go to work. He has information on the men who were watching you in Germany. He's sure he knows who they are." Ruth nods, but she doesn't smile. She had hoped the Russian men were far away, already occupied watching someone else. She looks at Harry, but he too appears worried. "It will be fine, Ruth."

Try as she might, Ruth does not share his confidence. She nods, hoping to have fooled him. She just hopes they haven't been followed to London.


	4. Chapter 4

Bob Blackmore is a short and stocky man with powerful arms and shoulders. A former junior boxing champion, his career had followed a similar trajectory to Harry's – fourteen years in the army, followed by fifteen years working for Mi5, and then another seven years with Mi6 as a section head. When Harry enters his hospital room, Bob is sitting at a small round table, a deck of cards displayed in vertical rows on the table in front of him.

"How's the Patience?" Harry asks, recognising the card game.

Bob stands and smiles, shaking the hand offered by Harry. "To be honest, I'm a bit bored. My doctor has refused my request that I be allowed to bring a supply of whisky into the room. I begged Marilyn to smuggle in some in a Thermos flask, but they've got to her as well."

"Had I known, I'd have brought in one of my hip flasks."

Bob makes a face and shakes his head. "They can smell the stuff from a distance, these nurses. Bloodhounds, every one of them. On top of that, Marilyn is plotting to overhaul my diet. I told her I'm not prepared to eat rabbit food." Harry smiles, remembering his remarks to Ruth when he'd met her by the Thames the day before.

Bob indicates the other chair at the table, and returns to his own seat, watching Harry carefully. "You're looking rather good, Harry. Life must be treating you well."

Harry nods. To be honest, he's feeling fantastic; loved up, he believes is the modern term for it. His body feels loose and limber, and he's sure he'd be capable of amazing feats of daring and heroism, should the need arise, but he is not about to tell Bob anything the man doesn't need to know. "Life's fine at present, but I need to know about the people who had my former analyst under surveillance in Germany."

"Analyst. That's a good name for it. Word has it that she left the country to save your arse."

Harry rather likes Bob, but they are not intimately acquainted, and he doesn't know if he can trust him, and for that reason he will take his jibes while sharing as little as possible. "She went into exile to ensure the future of the section, as you well know, Bob. Tell me about these two fellows who sat outside her flat."

Realising that Harry is not about to share any salacious details of his relationship with Ruth, Bob sighs, and pushes aside the rows of cards on the table. He then leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "I have two names – Igor Ivanov and Yevgeny Utkin. These two are former FSB, but do contract work throughout Europe, mostly in Germany. They have worked on and off for the BND for the past ten years, but my .. sources in Germany tell me that this job is being commissioned from within Russia."

" _Is_?"

"Yes. Present tense. The job is not finished. Word has it that you pissed off someone in the upper echelons of the Russian government. Does the name Ilya Gavrik mean anything to you?"

Harry feels as though he's been slapped. That is a name he'd hoped never to hear again. It had all happened so long ago. "Why now?" he asks. "I haven't seen Gavrik in … almost thirty years. What happened between us -"

"We all knew about you and Gavrik's wife. My sources tell me that she kept her little secret all this time .. until around ten weeks ago. As a result, Gavrik is determined to deliver you maximum pain."

Harry sits back in his chair, hoping his facial expression is giving nothing away. He takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. "So Gavrik has commissioned a couple of roving Russian thugs to keep an eye on my analyst while in exile, just waiting for me to turn up and take her home."

"That's about the measure of it, Harry. It seems that soon after Ilya Gavrik's wife spilled the beans to hubby, he employed a rather good analyst of his own to discover your comings and goings and your weak spots. The exiling of your analyst was the weak link he was looking for, so … then he sent in his dogs."

"And now?"

"Now?"

"Where are these two men now?"

Bob sits forward, his dark eyes staring across the table at Harry. "Well, last I heard they were in the UK."

 _Jesus_! " _When?_ When did they arrive?"

"The night before last, which was why I rang you as soon as I heard. It's a good thing I didn't expire, otherwise you, my friend, would be in the deepest of deep shit."

Harry stands suddenly, and takes out his phone. He puts up his hand in an apology to Bob, who waves him away, understanding the urgency. He quickly rings Malcolm, giving him the pertinent details, and then instructs him to send someone over to his house to keep an eye on Ruth. "I have just the person," Malcolm replies.

When Harry ends his call, Bob watches him for a moment before speaking. "I have it on good authority from Chester Berwick at Six that his team will deal with these two fellows, but it will be up to your team to locate them. Once you know where they are, then ring this number." Bob passes a business card across the table to Harry, who quickly glances at it before slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"I'm sorry I can't stay," Harry says. "You do understand."

Bob does, of course, just as he understands that Harry Pearce's former analyst is much, much more to him than a mere analyst.

* * *

Jo Portman has just arrived at the home of Harry Pearce, and she expects to find Ruth inside the house. Jo has been on an operation for the past eight days, so had not had an opportunity to catch up with her old friend. Before she gets out of the car she rings the mobile number Harry had given her. She knows she should have rung the number earlier, but she was in the car on her way to Thames House when Malcolm rang her. Ruth's number rings several times, and then Ruth answers with a wary `hello'.

"Ruth, it's Jo."

" _Jo_! How lovely to hear from -"

"Ruth, I'm sorry to interrupt, but something has happened, and I'm here on business. I need to come in."

"The house?"

"Yes. The house." Jo is watching the house through the windscreen of her car. The curtains in the front room are closed, so she can see no sign of life.

"I'm not in the house. I'm out shopping for some underwear."

"Where, Ruth? Please tell me where. You may be in danger."

At the word, `danger', Ruth quickly gives Jo her location, a store within walking distance from Harry's house, and then Jo asks her to remain on the phone while she drives there.

Ruth keeps the phone to her ear and continues to pretend to shop, while keeping her eyes on the other shoppers. It is not yet 9 am, so there are only a few women wandering around in the lingerie section, as she has been. All the while, Jo is telling her about the two Russian men who are out to kidnap, or perhaps kill her, as a way of bringing Harry to his knees. Ruth is wondering whether this is the way it will always be with Harry, and whether it would have been better had she remained in Germany. She shares this thought with Jo, who is silenced for a moment, surprised by Ruth's honesty.

By the time Jo finds a park for her car at the front of the store, and runs towards the entrance, ten precious minutes have passed. As she enters the shop and elbows her way to the back of the store, where women's lingerie is sold, she still has Ruth at the other end of the phone. No sooner does she have Ruth in her sights than the older woman is grabbed from behind by a tall man with short dark hair. The description fits Yevgeny Utkin, and he has one hand over Ruth's mouth, and is yelling that everyone should stand still, or he will kill her. Even though she is not in this man's line of sight, she does as he says, glancing around the store to check the positions of everyone there. It is a tricky situation. Other than Ruth, there are around a half dozen women in the women's lingerie section, and across from Ruth and Utkin, another man – chunky build with shaven head, a description which fits Ivanov – stands blocking the exit to the car park at the back of the building, a pistol pointing towards the shoppers.

Jo is stealthy. She knows she is. She can appear to be standing still, while all the while she is moving very slowly towards her quarry. Her brother had once called her the blond panther. She glances to her right where a woman stands behind a service desk, her eyes wide, her body statue-still. Jo gains her eye contact, and very slowly places a finger over her lips in a `sshhh' gesture. Since she is almost hidden from sight by a display, Jo is free to lift her hand in a `stay there' gesture. The woman nods, and then her eyes dart to where Utkin is holding Ruth, but very slowly – one small step at a time - walking her towards the exit. It is clear to Jo that this is a hostage-taking situation. She is armed, but to make any show of being armed is far too risky. In the absence of back up, Jo can only follow, but make it appear that she is standing still. She darts behind the display, and from there she has a much clearer view. All she has to do is get a direct shot at the man holding Ruth, before she aims for the man at the exit. It is risky, and she stands to get shot herself, but if she allows Utkin to take Ruth outside the building, then her friend may be killed, or even worse, taken to some secret location.

After the screaming and cries from the other customers when Jo had first arrived, the whole area is now eerily silent. It is as though the two Russian agents are still deciding what to do next. Time appears to be running in slow motion. While she waits she takes out her phone, presses Malcolm's number and makes a hurried and whispered call for back up before again pocketing her phone. Throughout her call her eyes never leave Utkin and Ruth.

Then she sees her opportunity. It is so simple. She takes the pistol from inside her jacket and rolls across the floor, from behind one large display of sports bras to behind another large display of strapless bras. The second display is around two metres closer to where Utkin is holding Ruth. When she again lands on her feet she takes a look from behind the new display. Perfect. She is now in direct line to where Utkin is still holding Ruth, his neck a clear target, and to her immediate right, Ivanov has stepped inside the building, but is keeping his eyes on the group of women to his right. Two perfect shots is all it will take. Can she do it?

Jo takes a deep breath, and _very_ slowly moves to her right, kneeling on one knee.

Then she straightens both arms and aims.

Before she has a chance to fire, a voice from her immediate right calls, "Drop your weapons." Bloody store security. Why hadn't she thought to warn them to stay out of it? They are like the cavalry – turning up just a heartbeat too late. She watches as Utkin swiftly lifts his weapon and shoots the security guard, who drops to the floor.

Then she quickly fires.

Blood spurts from the hole in Utkins neck, and there are screams and Utkin drops to the floor, taking Ruth with him She hasn't time to assess the situation.

She aims again.

And then she fires.

Ivanov has seen her, and his shot reaches her left shoulder a nano second after she fires off her second round, which hits him in the chest.

Both men are down. Ruth is down. Jo is also down, but conscious. Her shoulder hurts like fuck. There is a long moment of silence, and then more screaming as people run from the store. She wants to curl up and sleep, but she knows she can't, so she very slowly sits up, supporting her weight on her good elbow, and then she sees him. He has entered the store through the rear exit, side-stepping the prone form of Ivanov before charging between the rows of knickers and negligees towards Ruth, like the hero he is.

Harry.

All is well. Harry is here. And on that thought Jo sinks to the floor, rolls onto her side and closes her eyes. Her pistol is on the floor beside her. She remembers that she should have applied the safety catch, but she hasn't the energy to do anything about it.

Then all is a flurry, as people dart around her. She feels someone kneeling beside her. She can smell the woman's perfume – something young and florally. "Don't worry," the young woman says in a Manchester accent, "I've done First Aid." Then she pulls aside Jo's blouse. "Oh, cripes, a gun shot. I was away the week we did those."

"Here, let me," another voice says – female, much older. Perhaps this is the woman whom she had warned to be silent. "Tear off the other sleeve," the woman says, "and press it here, but not too hard. I think she's in pain."

 _Of course I'm in pain_ , Jo thinks, wondering why it is she can't get the words out. _It hurts like buggery._

Then a miracle happens, and she hears another voice, a quiet and calm, deep man's voice. "Out of my way," he says in that commanding way he has.

"Harry," Jo says, and she opens her eyes to see him smiling at her.

"Yes, it's me. Sorry I'm not someone more glamorous, like .. I don't know .. who is it you girls were all a-flutter about a couple of weeks ago?"

Jo has no clue what he's talking about, so she slowly shakes her head.

"I know. It was Ronan Keating. Perhaps you'd rather he was the one rescuing you."

"You'll do me, Harry," she says quietly, now that she realises she's not about to be shot again.

Harry leans a little closer, having taken the ball of material from the older woman, and is pressing it against her wound. "Don't let Ruth hear you say that," he says conspiratorially.

His words bring a small smile to Jo's lips, and she struggles to get her thoughts together, but the words seem to come out in the correct order anyway. "How is she? Ruth."

"Ruth is fine. Only her dignity has been damaged."

Harry sits up as Ruth joins them. She drops to her knees and leans over Jo, who wants to tell Ruth about the blood spattered on her face and clothes, but can't get the words out. "I'm really sorry, Jo. I should have gone back to the house when you rang."

"No," Harry says firmly, "you shouldn't." Jo watches while her section head and his former analyst exchange a long look. There is so much not being said by both of them that Jo can barely keep up. Harry's eyes turn back to Jo. "The ambulance should be here any minute."

"The .. shooters?" Jo hasn't heard a thing about them.

"The one who held Ruth is dead, while the other one is unconscious, and things look rather grim for him. A staff medic is taking care of him as we speak. The other staff medic is with their security guard. His injury looks worse than it is."

"What if the shooter -?"

"He won't do anything, Jo," Harry assures her. "He has a bloody great hole in his chest, and if he survives he'll be in hospital for weeks."

Ruth is just about to say something when the first ambulance arrives, it's siren piercing through the hubbub inside the building, now the situation has been brought under control. Harry stands and meets the medics, firstly showing them his ID. He brings them up to speed on the injured, asking that they first attend to Jo and the store's security guard, who has a number of staff members gathered around him. Then he moves away and makes a call to the Metropolitan Police. He and Ruth wait until all four injured are attended to, and then bundled into three separate ambulances. Once the police arrive, Harry speaks to the officer in charge, and then lifts his head slightly in Ruth's direction for her to join him, and then they leave.

* * *

"Perhaps you should drop me off at home first," Ruth says quietly, once Harry has directed his vehicle into the traffic flow.

He glances at her quickly, before he turns his eyes back to the road. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"I have to change out of these clothes," she replies. "I can't stay like … this."

"Then we'll go home first."

Harry turns into his street, and parks his vehicle in his driveway. Then he helps Ruth out of the car and takes her inside.

"Look at all this blood," Ruth says, standing looking at her reflection in the hall mirror, while he closes and locks the front door behind them. "I look like I spent a weekend in an abattoir."

Harry thinks she exaggerates, but he grabs her hand and guides her upstairs and to his bedroom. "Do you need any help?" he asks, as she enters the room with him, and then stands by the bed as if wondering what to do next. Ruth shakes her head, although he is not so sure. He expects she is experiencing some kind of delayed shock reaction. "I have to make a few calls," he says quietly, his hand gently grasping her elbow. "If you need me I'll be in the kitchen. I'll make us a pot of tea."

Ruth smiles weakly as she begins removing her outer clothing. "I'll need a bin bag for this lot," she says.

"I'll get one and bring it up to you. Perhaps a shower will help." Again Ruth nods. She appears low in energy, and this worries him.

By the time Harry returns with the bin bag, Ruth has showered and is curled up under the duvet, with only the top of her head showing. He quickly shoves Ruth's blood-stained clothing into the bin bag, and then ties it off. Then he takes her knickers and bras and places them on the chair beside the bed. Following his instincts, he removes his shoes and his jacket and climbs on the bed, moving close to Ruth, and lying beside her. He very carefully puts his arm over the duvet and around her, and waits for a reaction from her. When there is none he waits a little longer. "Ruth?" he says after some time, "are you all right?" She nods her head, but then, through the thickness of the duvet, he feels her body shaking. He does the only thing he knows how to do. He reaches across her to turn her towards him so that he can wrap both arms around her.

Rather than pull away from him, Ruth pushes her face into his shoulder and sobs against his shirt. Harry knows she is experiencing a natural reaction to the events which had taken place less than an hour ago, and as much as he should be at work, Ruth needs him more. He places one hand on the back of her head, and strokes her hair, while with his other hand he gently rubs the bare skin of her back. It does not escape his notice that the last time they had lain in one another's arms had been less that twelve hours earlier, after they had just made love for the first time. If Harry needed any more indication that he is living a life of extremes, then the past fifteen hours has been testament to that.

It takes some time for Ruth to become calm, and when she does she pulls away from him, and looks up into his face, her own face streaked with tears. "You should go," she says, drawing the fingers of one hand across her cheeks in an attempt to brush away her tears. Harry fights a powerful urge to kiss her, but this is not the time.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" he asks, watching her closely for any of the little `tells' that she is best not left on her own.

She nods, and then moves away from him, laying back against the pillow. "The man from the doorway is in hospital, right?" Harry nods. "And there's a guard on his door?"

"There are two. Six has seen to that. They want him either dead, or well enough to undergo interrogation."

"And Jo – how is she?"

"While I was downstairs I rang the hospital. She's in surgery, and they've promised to ring me when they know more."

Ruth takes her eyes from his and looks around the room. "I should get up."

"Don't, Ruth. Stay here a little longer, but ..."

"You have to go. I know." She looks back at him, managing a semi-smile. "Just make sure you lock the house before you go." Harry nods and then turns to leave the bed. "Haven't you forgotten something?" Harry turns towards her, frowning.

She points to her lips, touching them lightly with her finger. Of course. He rolls back onto the bed and leans over her to place a soft kiss on her lips. "Better?"

"Much."

Then he crosses to the doorway, glancing back at her once more before he leaves the bedroom.

* * *

Harry spends much of the morning on the phone, and so in late morning he calls Malcolm and Ros into his office.

"There is no need for everyone to know the pertinent details of this," he begins, once his agents are seated across from him. "I'm not proud of what has happened."

"No .. I don't expect you are," Ros says, her mouth hard.

"I'm not sure I understand," Malcolm says carefully.

"I brought you both in here because as my section chief, Ros, and the person who helped me find Ruth's whereabouts in Europe, Malcolm, the very least I owe you is an explanation for what happened this morning."

Harry gives a summary of the morning's events, and then some of the background which led to Ruth being watched, and then followed by the two Russian agents.

"So, you pissed off someone high in the Russian government," Ros states.

"Yes, although it was a very long time ago that the .. triggering events occurred."

"Why now?"

"Because," Harry says carefully, "the details of those events have only recently been … exposed, by the .. injured party."

Ros sighs audibly, as she moves in her chair, crossing her legs. "Don't tell me a woman was involved."

Harry nods. "It was a long time ago, and the woman and I were each married at the time – I to my ex-wife, and the woman to the man who is now .. in a position of some power."

"And he wants you dead."

"Not dead, no. My belief is that he has wanted to kidnap Ruth and perhaps have her killed, leaving me to ..."

"Suffer."

"Yes."

"Does Ruth know about this?"

Harry doesn't really want to answer this question, since the answer will make him look bad. "I only discovered who has been behind this at seven-thirty this morning, and the next time I saw Ruth was in the lingerie department where the attempted abduction was in progress. There hasn't yet been -"

"Jesus, Harry," Ros says, clearly exasperated, "all I was asking for was a yes or no answer."

"Then the answer is no .. not yet."

Malcolm coughs, his usual prelude to changing the subject. "I am assuming that this Russian politician -"

"Who said anything about him being a politician?"

"I've been doing some digging of my own, Harry. I am assuming that he's not about to give up, so my suggestion would be that, one .. I keep a long-term automatic surveillance on all international traffic into the country, and two .. perhaps Ruth could do with a new identity altogether."

Harry begins shaking his head. "She won't agree to that," he says quickly. "She'd rather live her life in the open, or not live her life at all. You have to remember that she has just spent over two years in hiding. She no longer wishes to hide .. from anyone at all."

When Ros's phone rings the meeting draws to a sudden close, leaving Harry free to check his phone messages. Two are from the hospital – one to say that Igor Ivanov has been placed on life support, and the other a message that Jo Portman is out of surgery, and should regain consciousness within the hour. Harry grabs his keys and his phone, and heads straight to the hospital.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: This is the final installment of this story. Thank you to all who have read, and thanks to all who have left reviews. **_

* * *

Harry's house – later the same evening:

Ruth stirs the marinara sauce for the pasta, while upstairs Harry stands under the shower, washing away the detritus of the day, a day more action-filled than most, not that her life in exile wasn't action-packed. Only that morning he had been first on the scene to rescue her – her knight in tarnished armour, her tainted hero, her very own private spy – although, to be fair, without the actions of Jo Portman, the morning's outcome would likely have been quite different. Even after Jo had called to warn her that she may be in danger, Ruth had felt safe in the belief that no man on earth – even a trained assassin – would venture into the ladies lingerie section of a store in search of their quarry.

While she was waiting for Jo to join her, Ruth had continued looking through rows and rows of bras, paralysed by the myriad choices, and her decision to buy something plain and practical. She could settle for something pretty and lacy and impractical, there were a lot of those, but she had always preferred a style which contained and covered, rather than setting what she had on display. As for Harry, Ruth is sure he would prefer she wear no underwear at all.

She had been mulling over the possibilities when she was grabbed from behind, a large, warm hand which smelled of tobacco clamping over her mouth, so that she couldn't scream, even had she wanted to. She'd caught a glimpse of the other man just inside the doorway to the car park, and then she'd felt something hard against the base of her skull, and her captor spoke close to her ear, "If you do anything at all other than remain still, my instructions are to kill you." His voice was deep and hoarse, and while his skin smelled of tobacco, his breath reeked of egg and onions. She had wrinkled her nose, hoping that that small gesture would not break this man's rules.

She has no memory of being afraid .. not until she looked around her to see the fear on the faces of the other shoppers. What must they have thought of her? She had not experienced genuine fear until her captor had shot the security guard. With the firing of the second shot blood had spattered her face, neck, and the front of her clothing, and for a brief moment she wondered had she been the one shot. Her first thought had been that if she was about to die, she would lose the opportunity to be with Harry, and wouldn't that be the ultimate irony; that he had rescued her from Germany, only for her to die violently in the lingerie department of a store in her own city. When her kidnapper had crumpled to the floor, she had fallen with him.

The next voice she'd heard had been Harry's. She had never before been more relieved to hear his words, his voice firm and calm: _Ruth? Ruth, are you all right?_ The visible relief on his face when she had turned her eyes to his, asking for a hand up had almost made her brief ordeal worth it.

He'd arrived home only half an hour earlier, looking weary and drained of his usual vitality. She'd sent him upstairs while she finishes cooking dinner. Strangely, being a homebody, Ruth has never been confident about cooking for others. There are so many variables which could impact on the outcome, variables such as oven temperature, or whether enough water – or milk or salt - had been added. For Ruth, cooking is not an intuitive activity. To compensate for her perceived culinary shortcomings she prefers eating on the run, buying food already cooked and prepared, or rustling up a simple meal with eggs and whatever else she can find in her fridge. This is only the second meal she has prepared for herself and Harry, and she is enjoying the challenge, although by the look of him, Harry would be happy to eat almost anything.

Harry.

At close range he is nothing like she'd remembered. He had been confident on the Grid, and yet reticent around her. Since they have returned to London together she has seen an altogether different side to him - one which is uncertain and unsure around her one minute, while at the same time firm in his conviction that they should try to make a go of it together. To complicate an already complicated situation, she finds her enthusiasm for a life spent with Harry waxing and waning, often in the space of a few hours. Having spent the day at home alone, she has had to do some serious thinking about her own future. She has managed to distill her quandary down to one simple question - does she want to live her life with Harry in it, or does she want to walk away from him, never again to consider the question?

In her past the truthful answer has always fallen somewhere between the two extremes. She has wanted Harry when it suits her, when it feels comfortable .. and safe. At all other times she has demanded to feel free of his need of her. Only as recently as two hours ago, when she was searching for vegetables to accompany the pasta, she had considered how she would feel were another Juliet Shaw to enter Harry's life, stealing his attention from her. Ruth's answer to that had been crystal clear. She would fight for him using every arrow in her quiver, and she would not back down until she had sent the bitch packing.

Ruth is surprised to find that this realisation has only served to free her, where previously she'd believed a commitment to Harry to be a form of servitude to the unknown, a place of limited options. Rather than looking for a way to duck and weave when he gets too close, she is now free to meet him where he stands. Her own personal prison has not been Harry, or his clear love for her; her prison has been her own mind, within which the prospect of losing him has rendered her paralysed with fear. She can no longer afford to place him in the same category as Adam or Danny or Zaf, or even her father.

Hearing his footsteps on the stairs, and then the scent of his soap and shampoo reaching her nostrils as he enters the kitchen, Ruth turns to smile into his eyes.

"That smells wonderful," he murmurs, stepping beside her at the stove, and leaning in to get a closer look.

"You can open the wine," she says, quickly taking her eyes from his. Sometimes looking into Harry's eyes, even when he is tired, is like staring too long at the sun.

* * *

"I'm impressed," Harry says, when first he tastes Ruth's fettuccine marinara. "This is excellent."

"I felt energised today. I should begin every day with a brush with death, followed by a good cry, a cuddle from you, and then a three hour kip."

"Don't, Ruth. I'm trying hard to not think about it."

"Eat," she says, pointing to the fettuccine. "It's one of only about four things I know how to make, but I need you to know I'm very skilled with a can opener."

They have almost finished their pasta when Harry clears his throat and takes a big slug of his wine. He then looks across the table to where Ruth is watching him. She lifts her eyebrows, and then takes a dainty sip of her own wine. She suspects that he has something important to tell her.

"I need to tell you about the person behind the .. attack on you this morning," he says, watching Ruth while she scoops up another forkful of her pasta. "You have a right to know."

"I'd quite like to know why they didn't just grab me while I was in Germany. It would have been so easy, but they just sat in that black Saab, pretending to read newspapers."

"It was me they were after, Ruth, and they needed me to be nearby when they took you. I arrived at your flat in Germany four hours late because I could only go in under cover of darkness." Ruth puts down her spoon and fork and takes a mouthful of wine, while Harry sits back, having pushed his bowl away. "I couldn't eat another thing. That was magnificent."

"Why didn't you tell me this at the time?"

He glances across at her quickly. "I didn't want to .. frighten you."

She lifts her eyebrows. "Fair enough, but I still don't know why they wanted you."

And so with a minimum of expression in his voice and face, Harry shares the bare bones of the story of Elena Gavrik, and his involvement with her. He finishes with her confession to her husband only weeks before. Once his story is finished he drops his eyes, while Ruth quietly observes him. He has no idea how she has taken his confession.

"It sounds to me," she says at last, "like she is the one who wants you to be hurt, Harry, and I can see why." When he lifts his head and frowns, she continues. "All those years ago she felt humiliated. She was prepared to leave her husband and leave Germany with you, and you left her waiting. I'd be beyond annoyed were someone to have done that to me."

"You think this was _her_ idea?"

"No, but I think she told her husband so that he'd act in a predictable manner." This time it is Ruth who pushes away her bowl of pasta. "That was quite filling," she says. They sit quietly, each waiting for the other to continue. In the end it is Ruth who speaks the unspoken. "We're still in danger, aren't we? A couple of dead security agents won't stop this woman and her husband."

They watch one another across the table, neither wanting to acknowledge the unthinkable. "I suspect so," he says quietly. "Malcolm's solution is to keep twenty-four-seven surveillance on people entering the country. He already has flags on certain ethic groups, as well as those with particular backgrounds and histories, so all he has to do is to tweak the parameters. He also suggested to me that rather than gain your old identity, you be given a new one."

"No," she says firmly, "I won't do that. I'm tired from running. I'm tired from hiding and looking behind me." Ruth looks up into Harry's eyes, which, as she has been speaking have softened. "I don't want to be afraid any more."

He nods and smiles at her. "That's what I told Malcolm. Being on the run is stressful."

Needing a change of subject, Harry suggests he tidy the kitchen while she takes the wine into the living room.

"I have a better idea," Ruth says, carefully placing her wine glass on the table. "Why don't we do this together? Isn't that the idea of .. being together?"

Harry is temporarily without a reply. Is she serious? "Are you saying what I think you're saying, Ruth?"

"And what might that be?"

Bloody hell. She's teasing him. Despite his weariness, which infuses every cell of his body, apparently not every cell in his body is weary. There is a vital part of him which is rather interested, and is beginning to sit up and take notice. He wriggles in his chair, leaning forward a little. "Have you made a decision about where you want to live?" he asks.

"Let's put it this way .." and she drops her eyes for a brief moment before lifting them to his once more. "For the foreseeable future I won't be looking for anywhere else to live. If you still … want it, I'd quite like to stay here .. with you."

"I have a terrible track record, and .. I've been told I'm a very poor partner."

"I happen to know you're loyal ... and good and kind and decent, and you'd give your all for those you love."

"I have a dark side. There may be times when I ignore you."

"I already know that, and I _am_ capable of taking care of myself. You forget that I've spent over two years of my life alone."

"I haven't forgotten, Ruth. How could I forget?"

She watches him closely, a cheeky smile playing on her lips. "I also happen to know that you have certain … skills which I wouldn't want to live without experiencing … on a regular basis."

Erection or no erection, Harry stands and walks around the table to Ruth's side. Until only a moment earlier he had not realised how tense he'd been about the possibility Ruth would at any moment announce her intention to live elsewhere. He leans down and kisses her on the mouth, taking time for her to respond in kind. Slowly she stands and turns towards him, wrapping her arms around his waist as the kiss continues, their mouths opening, tongues exploring. When Ruth presses her body against his her eyes fly open when she feels how hard he is. She pulls away suddenly, looking into his eyes, which are open, but lazy with lust.

"I thought you were tired," she says playfully.

"I guess not all of me is tired."

"Do you want to go upstairs?"

Harry steps away from her, grasping one of her hands while he looks down at her. "Eventually. It's not even 8.30, and there's more .. we need to discuss."

They pull apart and Harry begins to tidy the table, while Ruth runs water in the sink. Then, taking a fresh tea towel from a drawer, he stands beside her – but not too close – and dries the dishes. It is all so terribly normal and domestic, so much so that Harry can't help but smile.

"What's so funny?" Ruth asks as she peels the marigolds from her hands.

He quickly glances at her, and back to the plate he is drying. "Nothing. This. Us. We're just ..." and that is all he is able to say before Ruth smiles and nods.

* * *

In the living room the gas fire is already on, and the room is toasty. They sit together on the sofa, the last of the wine in their glasses. Ruth rests a hand on Harry's thigh, while he slides an arm across the back of the sofa, behind her shoulders. For a long time they sit without speaking, enjoying some uncomplicated time together, knowing that moments like this will be rare, and so should be treasured.

"I have to confess," he says after a long silence, "that I feel responsible for your safety, Ruth, which is one of the many reasons I'm happy that you are planning to stay here."

"I don't want you to crowd me, Harry. I _can_ look after myself."

"I know you can."

"It's just that I don't like … missing you. I'm not at my best when I'm away from you." When he has nothing to say to that, Ruth continues. "While I was away .. I missed you .. a lot."

Harry waits for her to say more, because he has quite a lot to say on the subject, but as brief as it was, she seems to have said her piece. "I can't even begin to describe how I felt while you were in exile." Harry's voice is deep and strained, like he is having difficulty speaking. They are sitting in such a way that they are both looking ahead, and not at each other. Somehow, this provides an open door through which honesty can emerge. "I worried about you so much, hoping you were safe, and … happy." He clears his throat before continuing. Through her hand on his thigh she can feel the tension in his body. "In the end … after almost two years … I told myself that you would never be coming home, and perhaps you may even have died. The resulting sense of devastation was so complete that .. for weeks I operated on adrenalin and habit alone. After that … after I'd allowed myself to … experience the pain of your loss … that is when I made the decision to look for you. Connie James had just died rather horrifically, and so it seemed that the perfect solution to her demise would be to … so I spoke to Malcolm, and the rest you know." Ruth feels him turn to look at her, but she is unable to return his gaze. She is unable to speak. "Ruth?" he says gently, "please look at me."

And so she does, just as the first tear rolls down her cheek and settles at the corner of her mouth. With one hand she wipes away the tear. Harry turns his body towards her, dislodging her hand from his thigh. He lifts his hand towards her face and allows it to hover, not quite touching her. Again, without thinking too much about it, he reaches out with both hands and draws Ruth against him. She doesn't fight or resist, but folds herself against him, tucking her head under his chin.

"Just think," he says, after they have remained that way in silence, "if we want, we can do this every night."

"What – I begin bawling, and so you then comfort me?"

"I was thinking more of the cuddling on the sofa." He feels a need to change the subject, to lift her from her gloom. "I need you to know that it's a very long time since I've ventured down this road with anyone, Ruth."

"I can't claim to ever have done it at all," she says, after the space of almost a minute, "so … I'm far from being an expert." She moves from under his chin so that she can better look at him. Harry is relieved to see a small smile turning her lips. "How do you suggest we proceed?"

Harry sits back and contemplates her words, but only for a moment. "I thought we might just .. make it up as we go along."

Ruth draws her eyebrows together. "Is that safe?"

"I've no idea, but when in the dark -"

"- or on a dangerous operation, it's -"

"- a reasonable strategy."

"It is," Ruth says, having the last word on the matter.

"I have another suggestion," he says, as she turns to looks into his eyes, and as he shares his suggestion with her, the old Ruth – his Ruth – offers him a wide smile, and her grey-blue eyes sparkle with joy.

* * *

London – next morning:

Through the window in the door to Jo's hospital room, Ruth catches the eyes of Jo, the woman who took a bullet for her, the woman whose actions saved her life. Ruth pushes open the door and crosses the floor to the bed, where Jo Portman sits, her left arm and shoulder bound in a sling.

"I'd hug you, but ..." Jo says with a tired smile, "as you can see, I'm practically mummified."

Ruth steps close to Jo's bed and grasps her good hand, the one not wrapped in a sling. "Thank you, Jo. I wouldn't be here now were it not for you."

"I was doing my job, although I have to admit that I was heavily invested in taking out those two Russians. We need you, Ruth. Harry needs you." Jo gives a weak smile, her large eyes holding Ruth's own. "There's a chair ..." she adds, her eyes glancing at the chair beside her bed, the one where her visitors sit, although Ruth is only Jo's second visitor. Once Ruth is seated, Jo continues, happy to see her friend after so long. "You don't have to thank me, Ruth. I seem to remember Harry thanking me yesterday, but I was a bit groggy at the time, and I may have told him to leave."

Ruth now has Jo's hand held between both her hands. "It's so good to see you. I've missed you, and I've missed … everybody."

"You would have missed Harry the most."

 _Still the matchmaker_ , Ruth thinks, but this time she is smiling. There was a time when Jo's words would have sent her straight to the door and out into the corridor. "I've missed you all," Ruth says, "and yes, I have missed Harry the most, but I miss ..." and she can't say any more. There are those she will miss for the rest of her life, and she can do nothing about that. Ruth finds the scrutiny of Jo's large eyes to be discomforting, and so she casts a glance through the window to where Harry is walking up and down in the corridor outside the room, his phone clamped to his ear.

"He's a good man," Jo says, having noticed where Ruth's eyes have been drawn.

"He is. He's ..." but she doesn't wish to spend her few precious minutes with Jo in discussing Harry. "I had an idea, and I've discussed it with .. Harry, and he thinks it's a fine idea, but I'll need your input." Seeing Jo's interest, she continues. "I thought, once you are let out of here .." Jo rolls her eyes, knowing it will be at least two days before she is allowed to leave. "I thought I might spend a few hours each day with you, in your flat. I can cook, although not very well, and I can help you with dressing, and anything else you need. When I first ran this by Harry, I suggested I stay with you for a week or so, but -"

"He objected."

"He did rather, so .. just for the first few days after you're discharged, I can … if you like -"

"- play mother." Ruth smiles into Jo's eyes. She'd been worried the younger woman would object, just as she would object were the situations reversed. "I'd really appreciate that, Ruth. I don't expect it, but the help and the company would be … lovely. Thanks. What about work?"

"Yours or mine?"

"Yours, of course. They're not letting me return to work for at least a week after I'm discharged from here, and then it's desk duties only." Jo makes a face which conveys her distaste at the idea of being stuck behind a desk.

"I won't be able to work until I have officially have my own identity, while in the meantime I've convinced Harry to let me .. help out."

"By that you mean you'll work _un_ officially."

Ruth nods and smiles.

* * *

Harry has parked in the underground car park of Thames House. He has killed the motor and is just sitting, waiting.

"Is something wrong?" Ruth asks. He turns to face her, and she can see he is worried about something. "I'm sure that any Russian thugs sent to get me won't get past Thames House security," she says.

"It's not that." He reaches out to grasp her hand, his grip tight on her hand. "I'm not sure what you expect from me, Ruth … once we get on the Grid."

Ruth is learning to interpret Harry's statements, many of which don't seem to make a lot of sense. "Do you mean, do I want us to return to purely our professional roles once on the Grid?"

He nods, a slight twist of his lips giving away his sense of relief that she understands. "Are we Harry and Ruth co-workers, or are we Harry and Ruth, the couple?"

Ruth considers his assessment of the situation to be a trifle black and white, but she can't tell him that. "Perhaps it's both. Are you worried I'll make a fuss if you show me any kind of affection or tenderness?" Again, he nods. "Why don't we just … make it up as we go along? We're quite reserved in public, so that would seem appropriate for the work place."

As confident as she sounds, Ruth is anything but confident about returning to the Grid, especially since she's there in an unofficial capacity. They have reached the doorway to the Grid, and Harry grasps Ruth's hand, stopping her in her tracks. "Are you ready?" he asks, turning to look at her.

"Are you worried what people will think, Harry?"

He wrinkles his brow. "About what?"

"About us? By now they all must know that we're living together."

"Of course not," he says, and in less than the time it has taken him to utter those three words, Ruth sees him adopt his professional persona, his guise as section head of Section D. With one hand lightly at her lower back, Harry guides her onto the Grid. It is almost 10 o'clock, and everyone who needs to be there is already there.

Ros is the first to notice their arrival. She looks from Ruth to Harry, and then back to Ruth. Ruth detects the slightest of smiles around Ros's mouth. "Welcome home," Ros says, walking towards Ruth, her hand out for Ruth to shake. While Ruth accepts Ros's hand, she finds it an odd gesture. "We could do with your skills right now," Ros adds, quickly dropping Ruth's hand.

Ruth has no idea what to say to Ros, and thankfully, Malcolm and Esther, the latter of whom has worked in admin since God was a child, are both heading her way. Both stop before they reach her, and Ruth suddenly feels like an exhibit in a museum – look, but don't touch. "It's good to see you on the Grid again," Malcolm says, his face crinkling in a smile.

"I've always appreciated your organised mind, Ruth," Esther says with a quick nod. Esther is efficient, but she has never been a people person.

Ruth is distracted when a tall, dark-haired man wanders across the floor from a desk hidden in the shadows. He looks around at everyone, and his eyes settle on Harry. "Harry?" he says, "I believe an introduction is in order."

Ruth has been aware of Harry hovering behind her. He is no longer touching her, but he seems to be waiting for an opportunity to do so. "This is Ruth Evershed, my former intelligence analyst and also my partner. Ruth … this is Lucas North."

Ruth's head is still spinning from Harry words, `my partner', but she proffers her hand for Lucas to shake. There is a dangerous, very physical quality to Lucas. She'll accept him, and then she'll watch him like a hawk. She can do no more. "It's good to meet you, Lucas," she says, shaking his large paw.

"Have you seen Jo?" Malcolm asks. "How is she?"

Before Ruth answers Malcolm's question, she glances at Harry, and nods. He smiles and returns her nod, before he heads to his office.

"I saw Jo this morning," she says, moving closer to Malcolm and Esther, while Lucas hovers in the background. With one last glance at Harry, who is already in his chair, but not taking his eyes from her, she shares the morning's visit to Jo with the others.

She is back, and she is glad. This is where she belongs.


End file.
